Hero of Rebirth
by Insert Typical Username Here
Summary: As there is no Tales of Rebirth category, this story shall be placed here. it is a novelization of Tales of Rebirth.


**The Hero of Rebirth**

By [Insert Typical Username Here]

Prologue

There are many tales of heroes of distant lands.

But, what is a hero? Is he one that meets out justice where others cannot, like the noble rogue Yuri Lowell? Is he one that strives to protect all that he can, like the crimson-clad Lloyd Irving? Is he one that is willing to lay down his life for his friends and family, like the weapon master Ludger Will Kresnik? Is he one that is willing to atone for past mistakes in any way he may, like the red-haired Luke Fone Fabre? What does a hero do?

The answer is that a hero does not _do _anything.

To be specific, a hero is not one that does a great deed, but is one who becomes one greater than he is. If a man saves a life in order to gain a valuable, he is not a hero, but a manipulator. If a man does some great deed, but his heart is not right, he is no hero.

The _heart_ makes the hero, not the action itself. The hero is selfless, kind, goodhearted, loving, patient, gentle, faithful, and courageous. It is not a matter of strength—else we would consider the crazed Barbatos Goetia a hero. It is not a matter of ideals—else we would consider the cruel Mithos Yggdrasil a hero.

Heroes who have these qualities are made immortal through stories and songs and legend. Such are the tales of men like Cless Alvein and Stahn Aileron—heroes of heart, mind and body.

This particular tale is a tale that not many have heard of. It is a tale set in the kingdom of Kageria—a land of strange beings and strange powers. It is a tale of courage, bravery, redemption, and, above all, a tale of heart.

This is the tale of the hero named Veigue Lungberg.

[++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++]

Proluge 1: A Little Lost Boy

It was nearly dusk in the northern region of Kageria. Around this time, establishments would close up, fathers would come home from work, and dinner would be served. Dusk was normally a time for laughter and pleasantness—a time of family bonding. Most families viewed dusk as a blessing in comparison to dawn—the arrival of the sun and the crow of the cock signaled a time to wake up, eat breakfast, and go to work or school.

In one such individual's case, this dusk was anything but a blessing.

This particular individual, clothed in rags and grime, stumbled through the underbrush of the seemingly endless mountain forest. He knew not when it was or where he was going—all he knew was that behind him lay the cruel memory of an event that the boy desperately tried to forget, but could not.

Like many such events, it seemed to the boy as if it were all a dream—more precisely, a nightmare. The boy expected to be awaken out of this torment every time he screwed his eyes shut and opened them—awake to a concerned mother and a loving father. But every time the lids of his ice-blue orbs parted, he was faced with cruel reality—the wish of this being a nightmare was just that—a wish.

It had only been several days ago in which everything was normal—a normal life, a normal family, a normal home. His birthday had just passed, and the now eight-year-old child was getting ready to go to bed—after all, school was on the horizon, and, after that, another fun day. His mother had closed the door to his room in their modest abode, and read a book by lamplight as she waited patiently for her husband to return.

However, as the reader may have guessed, this is where the young boy's story took a turn for the drastic. The father did return home—only to collapse on the front porch in a pool of his own blood. Without warning, the humble home was assaulted by a fierce and terrible storm—a storm of wind and of fire.

A storm, not of nature, but of magic.

The mother barely got the boy out of the house in time. The boy, tears of confusion, sadness, and pain streaming down his cheeks, fled into the woods even as his mother's final words rang in his ears:

"I love you."

And then his world went up in a hurricane of flames.

Now, who in their right mind would do such a horrible deed—the utter slaughter of an innocent family, living out in the mountains where accidental social contact was rare? It did not matter if the man was a soldier who had slain many in the defense of his kingdom. It did not matter that the woman had unknowingly offended several higher-ups with her strong will and courage. It did not matter that the family had roots tracing back to the warrior Sigfried.

What does matter, though, is that the boy was now completely scarred—a permanent fear of fire etched into his heart, and a shock of hair, once deep blue, now bleached near silver from the trauma just witnessed.

As the boy stumbled through the woods, a man stood from the ruins of the once-happy home. He looked to and fro, and then he let out a great scream.

And then he laughed.

The world would not know of this man, nor hear from him again, until a great amount of time had gone by. Thus, the arsonist and murderer quietly slipped back into the shadows and madness from whence he came.

[++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++]

Night fell on the sleepy little village of Sulz. It was a quaint little place, known as the Village of the White Peaks to the rest of the population of Kageria. Due to its location, it was often excluded from the relative madness that was the rest of the kingdom. People worked hard, played hard, and got along well, despite appearance or background—_truly_ backwards conventions. This made what happened that night truly out of place.

This event, as the reader might have guessed, was the appearance of a silver-haired child at the front gate of the village. After all, it is not an everyday occurrence when an eight-year-old boy collapses at the village gate, now, is it?

That being said, when the boy was found, it caused quite an uproar. Not immediately, of course. That would come in the daylight hours when normal people were awake. No, the only one immediately aware of the boy's sudden arrival was an average-looking man by the name of Marco Bennett. He was, like nearly all of the adult males in the village, a part-time watchman, and was presently making his rounds when he came across the broken figure. Being a person with a kind heart and a practical amount of common sense, Marco brought the boy to the village doctor—of whom his wife, Raikya, was an aide to. The boy was treated, suffering only light wounds—but, as mentioned before, the mental and emotional scarring would take much more effort to heal. Though the couple and the doctor did not know the specifics of the circumstances, they could tell something horrific had happened—something that no one should have to experience.

With this in mind, the couple decided to take care of the boy until he was better. This decision, one that reflected the goodness of their hearts, would be the start of a chain of events that would change the very foundations of the world they lived in.


End file.
